


Come, Willing

by gotfanfiction



Series: Fairy Tale Time [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Magic, Multiple Orgasms, Praise Kink, Red Riding Hood Elements, Rimming, Scratching, Temptation, omg these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26273614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: Geralt asks about the thing in the woods.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fairy Tale Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897204
Comments: 19
Kudos: 315





	Come, Willing

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, a twitfic that blew up in my face. That keeps happening to me. Enjoy!

It wasn’t often that he was contracted for this sort of work. 

It happened, of course, because humans weren’t nearly so sturdy as Witchers, and what would definitely kill a mortal man might only slow a Witcher down for a while. 

Still, he didn’t like wearing something so bright, cloak falling across his shoulders perfectly straight, just the right size. But he’d been assured that it was necessary, that it would keep him safe from whatever it was that lurked in the forest.

He left Roach behind; she deserved the chance to rest, and she was clearly nervous about the woods, spooked, and he didn’t want to risk her bolting and hurting herself.

Geralt adjusted his basket, which stank like magic, enchanted so that it was bigger within in order to carry medicines and supplies to the village, settled right in the middle of the woods, and he set off. The townspeople had recently been afflicted with a sickness, and though they had moved past it, they were concerned for their neighbors, who they had heard nary a peep from in weeks.

From what he could tell, this village depended on trade from the other, and neighborly concern aside, they were probably more worried about their purses. 

The path was well worn, but a bit of foliage was creeping in along the sides, a sign of near constant use dropping off suddenly. But it’s a lovely warm day, and Geralt appreciates the occasional job where his life doesn’t hang in the balance. His medallion hums, but softly, and he takes it as confirmation that this place is enchanted, in some way. 

There is no  _ true _ danger here, that he can sense, but he’s still wary, and for good reason. He's immediately drawn to the flowers at the edge of the path, both because they're incredibly useful for potions, and because they're incredibly out of season and therefore suspicious.

He can hear someone singing, in the distance. His medallion is now  _ buzzing  _ and the cloak settles heavier on his shoulders. 

Geralt wasn't warned about invisible musicians. He sighs, heavy, because  _ fucking humans, _ but he's got a job to do, and they only paid half up front, so he keeps going.

The singing gets louder, starts to trail behind him, and now there's a lute? He's going to ask for more money after he's done. It's not that the music is unpleasant, but it's distracting and alluring and it's setting off a little used part of his brain

Geralt isn't afraid, but he is aware that whatever is following him is powerful. He didn't sign up for a fight. So he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. He's so focused that he almost trips over the bard.

The man is lying in a convenient beam of sunlight.

He's strumming a lute, and singing some vulgar song. Geralt isn't used to stumbling over alarmingly beautiful people, and is absolutely alarmed.  _ What the fuck is he  _ doing _ here? _

The bard smiles, stops singing just long enough to invite him to dance further away from the path, and it takes actual effort, on his part. To turn away, to say no and continue on. 

Geralt doesn't miss the slip of sharp teeth when the bard's smile widens. 

He resolves not to sleep until he gets to the village.

The man who isn't a man keeps showing up, sometimes with impossibly acquired treats, often with only his lute and smile; _once with a silver knife that gleamed like white fire,_ ** _damn,_** **_he almost had Geralt with that one, fuck._**

Each time it's harder to resist than the last

Geralt knows the only reasons he isn't dead is his witcher nature and the stupid cloak. He draws the hood up, strides past the bard,  _ -what is he? why is he working so hard to get him to come, and _ **_willingly-_ ** doesn't stop.

He can smell people, now

He follows the scent of humans, blinking away hunger and weariness, almost drowning in that goddamned music

It's honestly surprising, when he arrives. He shakes the hood off, head clear, realizing he'd been at a dead run. 

He turns to the woods, and the bard waves at him, eyes sparkling, still perfectly framed in the light.

The people are grateful, but bemused. It turns out they were just in their annual resting time, no work to be done. It's a time for music, for eating and fun. 

Geralt asks about the thing in the woods. A few giggles. No fear. Knowing glances between older folk.

All they will tell him is that those woods are dangerous only to those with ill intent. The cloak isn't even properly magic. It's just a cloak. A sign that he means no harm. 

Geralt eats the food they give him, sleeps in the bed they loan him, and thinks.

Whatever else the bard was, he was clearly the reason why the woods were safe for mere travelers, but deadly for all others. He wonders why the first village had asked for him at all, had sent him into this place thinking he was actually protected.

He again asks the older people of the village. They still won't say why their neighbors, who should know them well enough to not worry about a brief stretch of silence that comes every year, and he thinks of the compulsion that had shivered over his skin.

Geralt is many things, but he isn't an idiot. 

He waits til the sun is at its warmest, takes a few steps back into the woods, cloak in his hands, something similar to hope in his chest.

The bard appears almost instantly, lute strapped to his back, teeth peeking out, eyes fathomless and deep. Geralt wondered if he was a spirit proper, or if he was some other creature, or even a thing that used to be a man and was now _ other. _

"What name do they call you?" Geralt noted that the dagger from before was strapped to the bard's thigh. Still trying to tempt him, like he wasn't already  _ caught. _ He'd come back, hadn't he? 

"Hmmm, now  _ that's  _ a bit of a question. People have called me many things."

"What do you call yourself, then?" And that got him a look, a moment where the ethereal mask slipped and a person looked back at him.

"I called myself Jaskier, once." The bard, named Jaskier by choice, sighed. "That was a long time ago."

Jaskier stepped into his space, and he smelled like flowers and sex, blood and magic. "You're Geralt. I heard you asking the villagers about me. Are you merely curious, Witcher, or do you mean to do away with me?" 

Geralt shook his head. "No, I just wanted-"

Closer, now, and they were breathing each other's air, a hand rested on his hip. "What did you want, Geralt. You need to tell me. You have to  _ ask  _ for it." 

He wasn't good at this sort of thing, never had been. And he wanted, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Oh, poor man," and Jaskier was laughing at him. "Do you need me to help loosen your tongue?" The hand crept around, grabbing at his ass, and it's opposite ran up the back of his scalp, nails sharp as the teeth in that mouth that pressed at his jaw. "I can do that."

He wanted. He  _ wanted, _ and with a ferocity he wished he could blame on compulsion, but it was only him, cracked open just wide enough that the beast in his chest could tilt its head and scent the air. 

"Please," he begged. "Please."

It was enough for Jaskier.

They were suddenly in a meadow, grass thick and plump under his back, and Jaskier, hands gentle peeled him out of his clothes, eyes glowing, and Geralt couldn’t bring himself to look away, even when was naked, swords tossed aside, a mouth on his own, stealing his breath from his lungs.

He  _ burned, _ control slipping as he tore fine clothes to ribbons, ripped his mouth away so he could bite at that pale throat, and Jaskier laughed, and allowed himself to be savaged, blood welling up and dripping onto Geralt’s chest. 

The smell of it drove him even more wild. And Jaskier gave as good as he got, teeth even sharper than his own, biting his way down the Witcher’s body, and he gave Geralt’s cock a lick but ducked his head down to bite more kisses on his thighs.

Geralt wasn’t expecting a sucking kiss right on his arsehole, body jack knifing up and away, or at least trying, but a powerful arm laid across his hips held him down, held him still, and he  _ writhed, _ sobbing out loud as he came within moments. 

And he was still hard, still gasping, slicked fingers joining the tongue that flickered around him, stretching him open, pressing on something he'd only ever been able to graze with his own fingers before, starbursts crackling along the edges of his vision. 

More fingers, now, and it hurt, and he loved it, and he was begging, voice broken, "Please, please  _ fuck me!  _ I want you  _ inside,  _ fuck,  _ please!" _

Jaskier hissed, eyes flashing and sparking, mouth wet and red and ruined, and best of all, he  _ listened,  _ let himself be dragged back up so Geralt could suck on his tongue, and it was  _ filthy,  _ wasn't it, and he didn't care as the prick he'd only gotten a glimpse of pressed in, huge, splitting him open in a strange new way, and he keened, mouth against Jaskier's jaw until the thing that looked like a man was bottomed out, set in him fully. 

Geralt had lost his words, what few he had, and all he could do was moan and desperately clutch at the man who was pouring fire down his spine, into his belly, overstuffed and delirious with it. 

"Aren't you  _ wonderful,  _ my darling,  _ oh,  _ sweetheart, you took it all, and so  _ beautifully, _ every inch," Jaskier hitched one of Geralt's legs up higher, breathless praise falling from his lips, and Geralt sobbed again. "Can you be a good boy, dear, can you take  _ more?"  _

And the words sent him to twisting, hands pulling, nails biting into supple flesh, and he wanted to be  _ good,  _ wanted it more than anything he could think of, forced himself to say, "Yes, I'll be good, fill me up, I want it,  _ I want it!" _

Jaskier brushed his fingers over the head of Geralt's cock, kissing him sweetly, setting him off, orgasm blinding him, but he could  _ feel  _ it, feel the spurts of come hot in him, and it felt like forever until it was over, Jaskier shuddering, whispering more praise into his mouth, and everything faded into soft white light.

*--*

Geralt awoke, and the first thing he noticed was come dripping out of him, sticking to his thighs. The second thing he noticed was Jaskier, running his hands through his hair, flowers folding into life wherever his fingers strayed, crooning some old love song he'd heard, once, as a boy. He sat up, slow, mindful of being sore in a way he never had been, before, fingers and toys falling short of being properly fucked.

His old heart fluttered when he was kissed, again, sweet as the flowers in his hair, under his hands. It was pain he was feeling now, responsibility rearing its head, and in the end, he could want all he liked, but he was a Witcher; it was the Path for him and nothing else.

"Gloomy, dear?" Jaskier breathed against his cheek, and he smelled like fire, like fresh green things, like sun on his skin. "Won't you tell me what's rattling about that silly head of yours?"

"I can't stay." Geralt swallowed, uncomfortable, but he owed him this. He owed him honesty. "I need to go back on the Path. I- I  _ want _ to stay, but I  _ can't.  _ I'm sorry."

Jaskier sighed, "This world still has need of it's Witchers, yes, but there's nothing said about you having no company on the road, now is there? Let me help you get dressed, dear, it's cold here, at night."

"I don't understand. You want to leave me? I would have thought you were bound to this place." Geralt did need the help, it turned out, legs shaky as a newborn deer as Jaskier redressed him, not seeming to notice the weight of a Witcher slumped on his shoulders. 

"Oh, I am, in a way, and I’ll have to return a few times during the year, but I'm old, Witcher dear. I can leave whenever I want." Jaskier did the last button up, slung Geralt's swords round his arm so they lay next the lute strapped to his back, dressed in a blink, before Geralt even noticed. 

"I'm looking forward to a proper adventure, you know," Jaskier pulled him along, practically skipping. "Now, let's get you in a bed, and some food in you, too. I'm going to take the very  _ best _ care of you, my  _ good boy." _

Geralt's stomach dropped, toes curling in his boots; perhaps he should have been worried, or alarmed, that something as fae, as  _ powerful _ as Jaskier was had latched onto him, chosen him to be his companion, but for once he was looking forward to what his future held. 

The cloak lay in the meadow, forgotten by them both, starkly red against the green, fluttering in the breeze. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> @gotfanfiction is the name, screaming is the game
> 
> Come hang out with me on twitter!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Would you let me enchant you?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26439751) by [Artemisia Todd (Illunis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illunis/pseuds/Artemisia%20Todd)




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